Subtlety
by jondiesattheend
Summary: For all his overt cursing and fighting, Daryl is still the most subtly-layered man of the group. Rated K so far, but may progress to M later for romantic situations and mentions of abuse/manipulation. Will contain more characters later; mainly Merle, Carol, and a little Shane.
1. The Coyote Song

**I don't own The Walking Dead, or any of its characters. **They belong to their respective owners. uvu I'm hoping to update soon enough with more little drabbles - and requests would be great!

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It's when everybody looks at him like that; that's when he knows something's up. It's bigger than last time, so big it'll swallow him whole and spit him out filled up with rage so they won't focus on the scared-child face or the cracking question in his voice.

The group's combined sights stare Daryl down like a cornered animal and he circles, circles round and round until he feels predatory, quick eyes fixed on the leader of the pack; a pack he isn't and shouldn't really be part of but he tries even if Merle calls him a dumb shit for it, blows smoke in his face and laughs.

He tries because he has to prove his brother wrong just once in his life, prove that they don't have to be alone, that someone somewhere's gotta care about them like they care for eachother.

Merle never makes it easy for him.

News hits him like a bolt to the gut and he turns away to make sure he isn't really crying, turns back and the fight breaks out.

It's his own fault when Shane chokeholds him.

It's his own fault when 'Rick Grimes' talks to him like he's ten years old again and his breathing picks up in the first throes of panic because something about the situation is too familiar and he wants to run but he's conditioned to fight no matter what. It's Merle's fault, Merle's fault everything is Merle's fault but more than that everything is Daryl's fault.

The hold on his neck loosens and he's left half-curled in the dirt where everyone can see. Humiliation burns hot and cold right through him even once he's up and snarling again like he was never thrown down in the first place, spitting venom at the men responsible.

They're staring again because Daryl is dangerous, a live wire like Merle would have wanted. He can almost hear the good job, baby brother in his head, see a serpentine smirk behind the red of his eyelids.

It's worth it, worth whipping round and round and seeing their displeased faces, knowing how much they dislike him, want him gone, it's worth it because at least he's done Merle proud.

Merle is the only one that cares.


	2. You're The Good Things

If anything, Merle was the smart one; cunning, knew how to manipulate the world around him, twist it to his liking. If Pa wasn't such a drunken asshole he might've been proud of his eldest son, encouraged him to stick in at school, maybe gotten him the counselling he'd needed so badly. Merle could've been something.

As much as Daryl tries to be, he's not his brother and it makes him sick with guilt. Pa doesn't care; he hates 'em both. But Merle cares, as always he's the only one, and he's been trying so damn hard, Daryl thinks, to make a man out of his baby brother. Unfortunately, Merle didn't bank on said brother turning out to be a pile of disappointment.

He can feel his dream lightening, pulling him away from a hotel that functioned more like a TARDIS, away from a prison riot and cells that didn't make any sense whatsoever, away from a guy that unsettled the hell out of Daryl but couldn't get anywhere with Merle just laughing his ass off in the usual obnoxious way. It's just a dream, but Daryl's still thankful for Merle being there.

That doesn't last long.

Panic sets in when he finds himself awake, knowing that he's in Merle's half-assed apartment that Daryl pays rent for most times, knowing he's on the sofa and that his head is leaning against something that rises and falls and feels warm against his cheek.

Sweet fucking Jesus it's Merle's chest.

"Sleep good, Darlina?" It's that pain-in-the-throat voice; people think Daryl's is rough until they hear his brother's. It's not quite _nails _down a chalkboard; more like sandpaper, with the occassional smoker's wheeze.

Merle sounds entertained and that's a step up from pissed, but not by much. Daryl makes a non-commital sound with his throat and swallows hard, watching his brother's free hand, the one resting in his lap instead of-where the fuck is his other hand.

A subtle shift tells him it's on the back of his neck and that would be comforting if he wasn't convinced the hand would tighten and lift him like a pup before throwing him to the wall for a good old-fashioned game of beat-the-shit-out-of-Daryl.

_Shit, shit, shit._

"Had a dream," he mumbles and tries to sit up, get out of arm's reach as quickly as possible or hell, maybe just leave the apartment altogether. Merle's hand tightens and his arm curls round, pulls Daryl back to him. He doesn't know what to think of that, but the free hand lifts to scratch Merle's stubble; Daryl flinches instinctively and hates himself and Merle for it.

_Don't hit me._

"Chase some bunnies through the forest in your dreams too? Shit."  
"No. Wew'rinahotel."

Merle grunts at that and relaxes. His grip on Daryl loosens for a split second before he changes his mind and keeps the smaller held tight instead.

"You still tired lil bro?"  
"Guess so. You wanna lemme go or what?"  
"Go back to sleep, shortass."

Daryl knows he isn't _that_ small but Merle's a fucking double decker and he might as well be a little bubble car. He frowns at Merle and tries to pull away so he can sleep again, but the grip on his neck doesn't loosen and he realises the jackass is trying to be nice to him; he's letting Daryl curl into him, but at the same time making it seem like he doesn't have a choice, which takes away half the embarrassment.

"Hey, Merle."  
"Shut up."  
"Hear me out. I pay your rent, jackass."  
"Yeah and you'll keep payin' it, shut up an' sleep."  
"Fine. Shithead."  
"Sorry, baby brother? Can't hear you over the whinin' in your sleep."

Daryl lunges for him at that and smashes his forehead into Merle's, which for once isn't intentional. His brother bellows and throws Daryl away from him, rubs his forehead and hisses through his teeth. The younger Dixon picks himself up from the floor and backs away when Merle comes towards him, but not fast enough; he's thrown into the sofa before he can lift his goddamn fists. It doesn't surprise him.

What does surprise him is that Merle comes barreling after him and throws himself onto the sofa too in some painful version of a puppy pile, with Daryl crushed underneath him.

"Holy shit, Merle, lose some weight," the smaller of the two wheezes out, hardly able to so much as squirm.  
"It's called muscle, ain't my fault yer a runt."  
"I'm no fuckin' runt!"  
"Heeey, hey, cool it, bro, you're the one that wanted to sleep all snuggled up an' here we are."  
"I didn't wan-"

There's no goddamn point in arguing so Daryl just fucking lies there and tries his hardest to keep breathing. After roughly ten minutes, Merle is merciful enough to shift off of him, sort of, at least enough to breathe - but it's not intentional, he notices, because the bastard's fallen asleep in record time.

The bastard would've left him to wheeze underneath 'til morning and the only thing that saddens Daryl is that he's not surprised at all.


	3. Smokey Taboo

**Author's Note:** _Sorry these haven't had much action in them, I'm still trying to get a better feel of how to write Daryl and the people around him; this is what came out. Requests would still really be appreciated! I'm considering some Caryl for the next chapter, and I'll probably start a multi-chaptered fic eventually, instead of these drabbles._

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His hands go limp either side of the chair, fingers dangling downward. That sandpaper voice slurs, dawdling into a wheezing arrest and leaving you both in silence.

This must be what peace feels like, right down to the lasts-two-seconds-Hell-breaks-loose part that everybody always talks about in movies. Calm before the storm, right before you're sucked forcefully into a giant's hollow eyesocket, waiting to be obliterated.

Living with Merle has been your worst life choice to date, not that you've made many. Hell, if it wasn't for this, you might still be living with Pa, and God knows you'd take your brother over him any day. Neither of them make you particularly happy, but at least Merle gives a damn if you live or die.

The dumb son of a bitch can't pay rent by himself, which is really the only reason you're here.

_You wanna move in with me, lil brother? Get you outta that hellhole._

_Can't pay your rent, can you bro?_

_No shit. Wha', you think I'd ask for the simple pleasure a' just havin' your sorry ass around?_  
_Why me? Y'got friends, or...whatever comes closest. Move 'em in._

_Nah nah nah, princess, you forget. It's always been jus' you an' me 'gainst the world. You movin' in or what? 'Less you're too 'fraid to leave Pappy's side, 'course._

_Almost makes it sound like you're givin' me a choice._

Sometimes you delude yourself into thinking you might be useful to someone, for something, someday. Merle's right in that respect, you guess; it really is just him and you. Nobody else is going to take you into their life like he has.

You don't move from the floor, though your ass hurts something fierce - you can _hear_ Merle mocking you for that,_ fuck off, Merle, it ain't like that _- and your back is starting to ache. These floorboards aren't exactly silent. One wrong step and you could wake him, and he's only just drifted off. But then, stay and he'll wake anyway, probably in a shitty mood and then who gets to suffer for it? Hopefully him instead of you, this time, but you've never won against him. Not once.

The calm is starting to crack.

Disregarding caution altogether, you push yourself upright with a quick jerk of the arms. To your dismay, the floorboards shriek underfoot and freeze you in place.

It's like stumbling out of a warren and finding a hunter almost atop you.

"Hell you gotta make s'much noise for..."  
"Go back to sleep."  
"Wuh."  
"Don't think your brain can handle the strain of bein' conscious."

Heart hammering, you're smirking because you know you're still safe within the first ten or so seconds of just-awake-Merle; he can barely register a damn word you're saying.

"Jus'...gimme a minute..."  
"I liked you better when you was asleep."  
"Hell you talkin' 'bout?"  
"Shuddup."

Ten seconds are up. You watch his arms strain to push his muscled weight upright, head no doubt spinning from the sudden movement. He lurches in your direction perhaps unintentionally yet still your entire body jerks backwards, heart jumping upwards.

Merle grins, slow and easy. He looks pleased.

This strikes you as very, very bad.

"You gotta smart mouth on you now? Practice in the mirror?"  
"Ain't hard t'outsmart a dumbass."

The air vibrates with hostility and Merle's mood turns sour, face grotesque in its displeasure. To anybody else, his abrupt changes of heart would seem bizarre, rare. But you - you're too used to it. Confusion isn't something that comes with him now.

No, confusion never lingers when it comes to Merle - but fear, that's another story, and despite Merle's_ fear is a choice_ mantras, you're full of it.

Backing away would only prove him right; prove he couldn't make a man out of you, that if he couldn't no-one could. So you lunge first, knowing too well that it'll end in blood and real blood dripping from your face, but Merle's got your back as his fist slams into your stomach, Merle's got your back, Merle's got you...


End file.
